


A Rose in Summertime

by whatkindofnameisella



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Background Mighty Nein - Freeform, Critical Role Spoilers, F/M, caleb and jester waltz, there is fourty three minutes until the new episode starts but hey better late than never
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:28:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23034016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatkindofnameisella/pseuds/whatkindofnameisella
Summary: There’s a moment of silence that stretches between them that is all too filled with broken pieces of bittersweet memories and an exhausted heartache before she speaks again.“Caleb, would you like to dance with me?”He should not, but it is too late an evening and he is too broken from the night’s events to refuse. If he could ever refuse her. “Of course.”It's been a long, hard day. Caleb and Jester waltz to make it better. Bit of a retcon for ep 97. Spoilers for up to that episode.
Relationships: Jester Lavorre/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 10
Kudos: 92





	A Rose in Summertime

It is strange to be standing here, back in the ballroom of the Marquis, after everything that’s been said and done tonight. There are hundreds of people and all of his friends around him and, suitingly, Caleb still manages to find himself feeling alone. These robes are fine, much finer than he deserves or is used to anymore (although, he did give Jester the money, and she chose it for him, so he cannot help but cherish it in some strange way), and he finds himself squirming in them, anxious to take them off once he gets back to his room at the Chateau, to smear grime over his face and be anyone other than an esteemed guest again. The orchestra hums a far off tune (swaying along in threes, he realizes, a waltz) along with Marrion Lavorre’s voice, and it serves some small salve to the pain.

His heart is still bruised, though, still sore with the aftershock of betrayal and regret. He feels stupid. He wants to forgive Essek (wants to forgive himself), feels that he should have already with all that he said. But it still hurts to be lied to after trust has been given, trust that has taken Caleb so long to be able to give again. He is tired and these robes are starting to feel too tight at the neck and oh, Jester’s mother has begun to sing in Zemnian again and this hurts, it all just hurts – 

“This is a waltz, you know.” The voice startles him out of his thoughts and he turns to see Jester standing beside him, staring out into the crowd of partygoers stepping around the dance floor as he was a moment ago. She turns her face up to him (and it hurts a little to look at her too, even as she’s too lovely in her pink chiffon to look anywhere else), a tired smile more genuine than most she wears working its way onto her face. “You remember the last time we waltzed?”

Something embarrassed and horribly bittersweet strikes him in the chest and he finds himself stuttering to answer. “Uh – well – sure, a little, _ja_.”

The smile turns into a smirk that crinkles the corners of her eyes and, well, maybe it wasn’t so bad to have so pitiful an answer. “A little?”

“I was very drunk.”

She giggles to torture his heartstrings and gazes back to the crowd. “Yeah. You were.”

There’s a moment of silence that stretches between them that is all too filled with broken pieces of bittersweet memories and an exhausted heartache before she speaks again. 

“Caleb, would you like to dance with me?”

He should not, but it is too late an evening and he is too broken from the night’s events to refuse. If he could ever refuse her. “Of course.”

His own reply catches him off guard for a moment, and he finds that in the space where there is usually only the overwhelming impulse to stutter a retraction, to cover his emotions and the too loud beating of his heart with something that holds less meaning, there is only a striking surety urged on by the way she pauses and turns to him, smiling as if she was not expecting the answer. It is a sight for sore eyes, and his have taken quite the beating. 

She slips her hand into his before he can come to any of his senses and leads him out onto the dance floor, placing a hand to his shoulder as his finds her waist, and they slowly slip into the circling manѐge of the waltz. It is much easier, he finds, now that he is not drunk to the point where he has to lean on her to stand up, and his feet take up the familiar steps without much thought. The music is simplistically beautiful– waltzes always seem to feel that way. A longing music made for sentimental words whispered between the phrases of lavish dance.

After a stretch she looks around at the crowd and their clasped hands and to their feet only to smile up at him, and oh, this is too close, too horribly easy to breathe in the lovely scent of her perfume, to count every freckle on her flushed cheeks, and she looks – she looks like a rose in summertime, just as sweet and twice as beautiful, and – she always does, doesn’t she? They round a bend and as violet locks to his blue the soft tread of their shoes and sway of their clothes join the orchestra for a measure of an oddly hopeful sound, and – it might ache to look at her but it warms his chest a little too, and he thinks he could stand it just a little longer if it meant he was privy to that smile.

“You know, you’re a much better dancer than I remember, Caleb.”

“Is that so?” He quirks his brow, if only to see her press her lips together in an attempt to suppress a laugh, and against all reason feel his do the same, “I guess it’s a little easier to hold myself up when I’m not hammered to shit.”

He leads her in a quick circle around themselves at that, the laugh managing to escape her chest as the chiffon swirls around her feet, and oh, that was a lie, because that sound is all the buzz of sunlight and a healing spell and more than enough to get drunk on. There’s a smile breaking across his lips like he hasn’t felt in much too long, something lovely blossoming in his chest as she brings her head back to stifle the remaining giggles in the crook of his shoulder, and – he is tired and bruised and betrayed and somehow laughing in the middle of a ballroom while holding on to Jester Lavorre, and he can’t seem to hate himself for this. He is healing, even on the nights like these where it seems the hardest to get by, and it is these hands the color of blueberries fresh off the farm in summer, these violet eyes and freckled cheeks that are now grinning into the fabric of his robes that have helped him do it. He is hurting, but the hurting comes with a little bit of sunshine too, and for once he does not find the need to loathe himself for enjoying in it.

She manages to pick her head up off his shoulder, laughter still alight in her eyes and the grin widening on her cheeks. “You’re the best dance partner _ever_ , you know.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Are we basing this off the time I was blackout drunk or right now?”

“Oh, Caleb,” and she shakes her head a bit on the verge of another laugh, that name that’s his because he gave it to her drawn out in the way that’s damned him to love it _(and to love her, to love her)_ , “I don’t care if you’re drunk or sober or half way to dead. It’s not the dancing that matters,” she shrugs her shoulders that glitter as if with stars, “It’s the person I’m dancing with.”

His heart stills in the sunshine and the oh-so-lovely pain. “And who would that be?”

And she smiles again, small and soft and with an all too familiar ache painted on her face. “You, Caleb. You.”

“Oh.” His heart is beating too fast and there must be heat rising to his cheeks, there must be, because there always is around her, and – _the smell of that perfume and those freckles and Jester Lavorre, Jester Lavorre, right beneath his nose._ “Oh.”

“Oh?”

He looks down to some place behind her shoulder, too tangled a mess to be able to meet her eyes. “That is very sweet of you.”

She shrugs again, and when he finds the courage to look at her again there is a helpless expression on her face, cutting into him with the simple truth that she has no choice. “It’s just the truth, Caleb.”

“ _Ja_ , well…” He breathes deep, lulling in the sublime sunshine that comes with being around her. “You’re a great partner too. A perfect one.” _My perfect one._

It is her turn for fuchsia to rise to her cheeks, to shift the grasp of her palm in his hand and finger the embroidery on his robes, the sound of the orchestra and masses of conversation filling the empty space between them. Those words have weight, he knows, and she seems to understand him in that wordless way she always does, the light in her eyes softening to a quiet adoration he’s too exhausted to try and push away.

“Thanks, Caleb.” It’s little more than a whisper, nearly lost in the thrum of the music and far off conversation, only heard because they are so close, and – it melts his heart, holds it and heals it in the way that she does to him, all the same.

They round another bend, a phrase of music playing out in the comfortable silence, and she knits her brow together as she looks to some place over his shoulder. “You know, it’s funny,” and she looks back to him, a hint of humor again at the corners of her mouth, “All I could think about was getting my mama and going home a few minutes ago, but now I keep thinking of excuses I could use to stay here and dance.”

Caleb feels a smile twinge the corner of his mouth. “Dancing is a lot better than standing around and thinking tonight.” _When it is with you. Especially when it is with you._

She rolls her eyes and nods, a familiar bombastic inflection stretching out her voice, “A lot better," and as she looks back her lips turn up to mirror his smile, if a bit wider and brighter, as it is wont to be. “Thanks for dancing with me, Caleb.”

There’s a strange ache that takes him in the chest at the thought that she would expect him to refuse. He’s trying to learn not to. It’s easier when the request comes from her. “Jester, I will always dance with you.” 

“Always?”

And he digs to that deep place within himself where she has made him carve out a piece of his heart for her, taking the strength of his voice with it. “Always.”

Jester grins wider than before, bites the edge of her lip and looks down while she tries to squeeze in the edges of her smile. It doesn’t work so well, and she drops her head down to rest on his shoulder. It comes with the sunshine and the pain and a sublime ache somewhere in his heart but more than anything it’s – lovely. Lovely. She smells like roses and is as twice as beautiful as one. He holds her in his arms. 

They waltz and waltz in the ballroom of the Marquis, laughing and aching and sharing sentimental words with the other. It’s better than standing and thinking of betrayal tonight, and Caleb finds it easier to smile. He doesn’t hate himself so much for it anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> yes there is barely 30 minutes until the next episode starts and YES I am posting now bc I did not spend a week on this and get emo about Caleb Widogast finally starting to heal to not to post it. this took longer than I was expecting and went in so many places I wasn't expecting but I am so happy with how it turned out! hopefully liam will treat us well in ep 98 and give us that waltz content we deserve. all of the stuff everyone has been making in spite of no second waltz last ep has been AMAZING and I just LOVE THIS COMMUNITY SO MUCH. thank you all for creating and thank YOU for reading! :')


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